Untitled-
Click. The phone went dead. I looked at it to reassure myself that the call ended. To my expectations, it did and I continued down the few steps from my school and tagged along behind my friends. The weather was awkwardly pleasant for that time of the year. The sun shined, teenagers stood at the corner of the block chain smoking, while others participated in illegal activities. Such actions were familiar to me; I see it everyday. However, this day, I wasn't just looking at these teenagers with judgement, I wished I were them. Their carefree actions showed their lack of responsibility or any remorse for those who disapproved.
I, with my head full of staggered emotions and adult-like responsibilities wished that we could trade places. I'd stand on a corner dressed in all black next to the peculiar goth kids or by the gays that didn't necessarily fit in the queer community, but were being considered. They'd be the girl who held onto grudges that subconsciously but not directly affected them. I could be that concerned girl hat asked me 'Are you okay" when I'd see someone crying. I could console this girl and say "It'd be okay" even though it wouldn't or I had no clue at all.
I hit the corner and once my heel touched the pavement, this unexpected ball of emotion hit me. This sorrow was pass adieu and I saw no need for such acting out. I guess I couldn't control it. My fingers nervously sprang across the touch tone. 1347, wrong, 1917, wrong. I finally decided to dial 2 for speed dial. She heard my tone and immediately she was worried. "I'm on my way" she said. I knew I could count on my best friend. She was the girl that I underestimated, but knew was useful. My school friends stopped me on the next corner because they saw the tears. I shook my head "no". I couldn't explain to them, I'd only knew them since September. This issue dated back several years ago.
On the train, my ipod's volume was set on low. I had no book in my hand, no book at all actually. My mind was full of air, my heart full of hot steam that needed to condensate into gas. This delayed reaction grieved me. I just stared thinking "I don't want anything to happen to my mom. I love her. I need her. The entire train ride was distant. People's noses began to disappear from their faces and their mouths would sink in;faded it would appear. The significance of that hadn't become clear until I got there. This was my mother's second time in the hospital for excess bleeding. She had called and texted my phone several times in school and I couldn't respond.
Now, inside this infested emergency room full of sickly and diseased germs, my mother lied on the uncomfortable hospital bed. Her face was lively, yet flushed. Pain didn't read on her face and I was a bit relieved. My mom had took off from work and paid my aunt a visit. It's a annual routine. They fight about twice a year, and go for months without speaking; they surprisingly reunite in the month of December and start the bickering simultaneously again. This was something else I was used to.
My mom who is the oldest and acts her age wanted to talk with my aunt to smooth over some misunderstandings. This turned into a rave. My aunt was screaming, yelling obscenities and she was uncontrollable. She hated us, was what she said. She had always been jealous of my mom and what she had and I never really understood why. She could easily have the same things; she was beautiful, way prettier than my mom, she could get a husband, she had a standard level of common sense, but she lacked intelligence. That was her problem for years and what she lacked turned into ignorance.
I could recall instances years back, when she acted out, cursed us and bashed us. Especially during my grandmother's sickness, she was overwhelmed with fear, it danced in circles around her as it did all of us. I evoked nonchalance and a distant awkwardness took over my personality. This was the first time we had to deal with death exclusively. It was our responsibility s a family to unite and be there. That's wasn't even the half of it. I remember trembling at the podium with tears running down my face and my hands crumbling the poem I was to read. I closed my eyes and began to read without hesitation. I didn't know then that I would later regret what I'd read.
At my grandmother's funeral, the poem entitled "Mi Wonder Woman" addressed everything I felt without mentioning names. I decided against using names due to fear of those "individuals". To this day, I think my aunt remembers that poem. It made her think and she felt guilt because she knew that this poem, as metaphoric as it was was directly about her and her actions. Looking at my mother, I began to see the familiar face, the familiar process and I saw my grandmother lieing on that hospital bed. The vision was evident as my aunt yelled "I hate you" and my grandmother cried and cried as my mother told me the story. This was happening again and to my mother this time.
I felt that it was time. I had to tell her. I swallowed my pride, held the poem and looked for a recognizable face with a solace look.
Click. The phone went dead. I looked at it to reassure myself that the call ended. To my expectations, it did and I continued down the few steps from my school and tagged along behind my friends. The weather was awkwardly pleasant for that time of the year. The sun shined, teenagers stood at the corner of the block chain smoking, while others participated in illegal activities. Such actions were familiar to me; I see it everyday. However, this day, I wasn't just looking at these teenagers with judgement, I wished I were them. Their carefree actions showed their lack of responsibility or any remorse for those who disapproved.
I, with my head full of staggered emotions and adult-like responsibilities wished that we could trade places. I'd stand on a corner dressed in all black next to the peculiar goth kids or by the gays that didn't necessarily fit in the queer community, but were being considered. They'd be the girl who held onto grudges that subconsciously but not directly affected them. I could be that concerned girl hat asked me 'Are you okay" when I'd see someone crying. I could console this girl and say "It'd be okay" even though it wouldn't or I had no clue at all.
I hit the corner and once my heel touched the pavement, this unexpected ball of emotion hit me. This sorrow was pass adieu and I saw no need for such acting out. I guess I couldn't control it. My fingers nervously sprang across the touch tone. 1347, wrong, 1917, wrong. I finally decided to dial 2 for speed dial. She heard my tone and immediately she was worried. "I'm on my way" she said. I knew I could count on my best friend. She was the girl that I underestimated, but knew was useful. My school friends stopped me on the next corner because they saw the tears. I shook my head "no". I couldn't explain to them, I'd only knew them since September. This issue dated back several years ago.
On the train, my ipod's volume was set on low. I had no book in my hand, no book at all actually. My mind was full of air, my heart full of hot steam that needed to condensate into gas. This delayed reaction grieved me. I just stared thinking "I don't want anything to happen to my mom. I love her. I need her. The entire train ride was distant. People's noses began to disappear from their faces and their mouths would sink in;faded it would appear. The significance of that hadn't become clear until I got there. This was my mother's second time in the hospital for excess bleeding. She had called and texted my phone several times in school and I couldn't respond.
Now, inside this infested emergency room full of sickly and diseased germs, my mother lied on the uncomfortable hospital bed. Her face was lively, yet flushed. Pain didn't read on her face and I was a bit relieved. My mom had took off from work and paid my aunt a visit. It's a annual routine. They fight about twice a year, and go for months without speaking; they surprisingly reunite in the month of December and start the bickering simultaneously again. This was something else I was used to.
My mom who is the oldest and acts her age wanted to talk with my aunt to smooth over some misunderstandings. This turned into a rave. My aunt was screaming, yelling obscenities and she was uncontrollable. She hated us, was what she said. She had always been jealous of my mom and what she had and I never really understood why. She could easily have the same things; she was beautiful, way prettier than my mom, she could get a husband, she had a standard level of common sense, but she lacked intelligence. That was her problem for years and what she lacked turned into ignorance.
I could recall instances years back, when she acted out, cursed us and bashed us. Especially during my grandmother's sickness, she was overwhelmed with fear, it danced in circles around her as it did all of us. I evoked nonchalance and a distant awkwardness took over my personality. This was the first time we had to deal with death exclusively. It was our responsibility s a family to unite and be there. That's wasn't even the half of it. I remember trembling at the podium with tears running down my face and my hands crumbling the poem I was to read. I closed my eyes and began to read without hesitation. I didn't know then that I would later regret what I'd read.
At my grandmother's funeral, the poem entitled "Mi Wonder Woman" addressed everything I felt without mentioning names. I decided against using names due to fear of those "individuals". To this day, I think my aunt remembers that poem. It made her think and she felt guilt because she knew that this poem, as metaphoric as it was was directly about her and her actions. Looking at my mother, I began to see the familiar face, the familiar process and I saw my grandmother lieing on that hospital bed. The vision was evident as my aunt yelled "I hate you" and my grandmother cried and cried as my mother told me the story. This was happening again and to my mother this time.
I felt that it was time. I had to tell her. I swallowed my pride, held the poem and looked for a recognizable face with a solace look.
